


Edmund Reid Can't Sleep

by Ronique



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Bedrooms, Beds, Butt Slapping, Butts, Cuddles, Cuddling, Cuddling & Snuggling, DO NOT COPY, Do not copy work to another site, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Insomnia, Kisses, Kissing, Light Angst, Modern AU, One Shot, Sharing a Bed, Short & Sweet, Sleepy Boys, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Kisses, Sweet, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Touching, domestic life, married au, no copying, subtle nudity, sugary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:53:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23962660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ronique/pseuds/Ronique
Summary: Edmund Reid has insomnia, but Mimi saves the night with intuition and domestic sweetness. Absolute fluff and cuddles. Modern AU in which Edmund Reid and Hermione Morton are married.
Relationships: Mimi Morton/Edmund Reid
Comments: 16
Kudos: 13





	Edmund Reid Can't Sleep

He'd been languishing in their bed for hours when he heard the metallic jangle of Hermione's keys rattling against the front door. It was a distinct sound—one he'd heard a thousand times—and yet it soothed because it heralded the return of his love. Odd, he noted, how one recognizes and assigns meaning to innocuous sounds. He envisioned her slender wrist swiveling as her fingers jiggled the mismatched cluster of keys back and forth while she tried to unlock their finicky front door. Then he imagined her sighing in frustration as the seconds dragged on.

A spritz of lubricant would fix the lock, but he hadn't had the time to tend to it. In fact, the last two days had been so entirely hectic, he hadn't even had time to sleep. Now that it was Friday night and he had time to rest, it was the cruelest irony that he was plagued by a bout of insomnia. Each flip of the clock’s large, neon green numbers foreshadowed a sleepless night. Despite his exhaustion, his mind would not stop turning. It was fettered by random, jumbled thoughts and bits of work, and his battle for sleep only exasperated the problem. His body felt restless, his eyes ached, and he could not find a comfortable position. It was as if he were too tired to sleep.

The front door finally creaked open and, in the darkness of their bedroom, a hint of a smile curled the corner of his mouth as he imagined her following her usual routine. 

She'd set her purse down on the entryway table next to their artsy ceramic bowl. Then she'd drop her keys in the bowl. As if on cue, he heard the telltale splat of her keys landing in the bowl. A picture of the bowl with her keys splayed dead center popped into his mind. The bowl was a gift from Janet, a long time friend of Hermione's who prided herself in finding one-of-a-kind locally made pieces of art. Hermione loved it. Edmund thought it was a fine bowl, but also that it was faintly reminiscent of a Georgia O'Keeffe painting. Later, when he'd told Hermione that, she'd laughed in delight and hugged him without explanation. From that day forth the bowl greeted him every time he walked through their front door, and it always made him think of her smile.

Hermione's footfalls fell softly on the stairs, accented every third step or so by the creaking of a disgruntled slat. Finally, the slender silhouette of his love, highlighted by ambient light, crested the top of the stairs and slipped into their room. She turned for her dresser. He watched the shadowed lines of her body move as she reached up to brush strands of hair behind her ear. She hadn't greeted him. She must have realized the house was dark and quiet, and thought him asleep. Even in the dark, she moved like a dancer. She removed her jewelry, then reached for the pins in her hair. He watched her for a moment longer before he spoke.

"...my love." His whispered voice was rough and low.

She looked at him and apologetically froze, fingers half tangled in her hair. "Did I wake you?"

"No, no," he chuckled softly. "Can't sleep."

"Bad dream again?" She moved, shedding her work clothes and preparing for a shower.

"No…restless."

"Mm. I'd thought you'd be completely knackered."

"I am," he said, letting loose a frustrated sigh. Agitated and feeling confined, Edmund defiantly kicked off the covers, letting the cool air strike his bare skin, and rolled away to half bury his face in a pillow - as if doing so would force sleep to come.

"I see."

He closed his eyes and listened as she moved about the room. The hamper lid squeaked and then thumped closed as she dropped her dirty clothes inside. He could hear the soft padding of her bare feet as she rounded the bed again.

The quiet was shattered by a vigorous, sharp smack to his left buttock. It was a startling stinging sensation, completely unexpected, and he jerked his head up from the pillow in shock. “Uhh!” he exclaimed as a mild, burning spread over his buttock. Defensively, he pushed his hips away from her and weakly swung a hand back to swat away any further attacks.

"Sorry, love," she giggled. "I couldn't resist."

"You're not sorry," he mumbled, smiling, and dropped his head back to the pillow. His buttock smarted. He rubbed it for a moment, then lazily groped for the covers and protectively pulled them up over his hindquarters.

"No, I'm not," she hummed contentedly. "It's not really my fault, though, is it, if you flaunt that while laid bare in our bed?" 

He grinned at the playfulness in her voice. Playfulness, fondness, and thinly veiled sensuality. "Have you no mercy for your exhausted husband?"

"None. Off to shower."

She walked off toward the bathroom and the door clicked shut. Bright, thin light illuminated the cracks around the door, warming the bedroom in a dim glow. After a minute, the shower turned on.

He listened to the sounds of her. He noted when she entered the shower, listening to the sound of the water stream change as it struck her body instead of the shower floor. He heard the faint clicking of a shampoo bottle and then a clattering noise; she must have dropped something. The sounds of her set him at ease and tension faded from his tired muscles. He drew a long, slow breath and released it, relaxing into the mattress and pillow to the lulling tune of her. The watery white noise ended after another five minutes or so and her hair dryer kicked on. Its low hum wasn't quite as mesmerizing, but it was still a sign of her presence. 

Finally, the bathroom quieted, the light clicked off, and the door opened. The clean smell of a freshly laundered Hermione spread over the bedroom. Sweet lavender and lemongrass. She walked to her dresser. 

Hermione wasn't a loud person. Some people were loud and made excessive noise even as they completed mundane tasks. Maybe they chewed loudly, scraped the soles of their shoes as they walked, or fidgeted constantly. Not Hermione. She was naturally a quiet person, which made some of the things she did and said surprising. If a person did not know her well, they might assume her disposition and personality were resolutely quiet, a given and a constant, but Hermione exuded intelligence with a quick wit and a sharp tongue. She was also energetic, creative, and fun-loving, and - at times - downright mischievous, as his recently smacked posterior was a not-so-shiny example of. 

The mattress dipped and the covers shifted. Edmund cracked one eyelid to watch his love languidly slide into their bed.

"Hey," he mumbled, greeting her with a sleepy, adoring smile.

"Hey," she whispered, slipping her body comfortably close to his under the covers. 

He lifted himself to greet her, but she gently rested a hand upon his shoulder and pressed, encouraging him to lie down again. Her touch was too inviting to defy, and he sank to the mattress.

She slid herself closer. The heat of her body radiated onto his skin as she hovered over him and softly kissed his cheek.

"So, why can't you sleep?" 

Edmund’s mind was typically the definition of refined order, but the very lack of sleep which bedeviled him also prevented him from coherently explaining why it was, exactly, that he could not sleep. He closed his eyes and his brow minutely creased with his frustration. 

"I don't... I'm so tired," he whispered, his voice gruff with exhaustion. "I've been trying to sleep… for hours." 

He opened his eyes and raised his head to look up at her, but the soft warmth of her palm clasped his cheek and guided him back to the pillow. Again he yielded, closing his eyes and resting his head upon the pillow.

"What did you have for lunch?" She stroked her thumb over his cheek.

He tried to recall. Lunch seemed so long ago now, and the intimacy of her touch was so distracting. Did it matter what he had for lunch? Maybe she was wondering if he'd had any caffeine, which might serve to thwart sleep. "Mm," he hummed, trying to think back.

She kissed his temple. Her lips were so soft. Soft, warm, and gentle enough to make it harder to concentrate on her question. A strand of her hair brushed the shell of his ear and he didn't care about his lunch. He just wanted to feel her, there, with him.

"What did you have for lunch?" she coaxed again.

"Mm...ham."

"Only ham?" She lifted her lips from his temple and kissed his forehead.

His memories were muddled. There had been other bits of things on his lunch plate, but now it was difficult to recall what they were. Something green, perhaps, and bread. "Bread."

"Ham and bread." she noted.

"…salad."

"What sort?" she asked, as if musing the various potential and possibilities of salads. Her breath teased his skin. She grazed the side of his neck with her finger, drawing a slow line from the base upward to below his ear, and then slipped her fingers into the finer hairs at his nape.

A swell of relaxation washed over his shoulder and dissolved down his spine. Whatever residual tension clung to his frame melted away. "...mm…" His breaths lengthened and deepened.

"What sort of salad?" she whispered, and curled her fingers in the softer hair.

"Mssm."

She slipped her hand from his hair, followed the contours of his body down his neck and over his shoulder, and pressed her palm flat against the scars covering his left pectoral. His warm chest steadily rose and fell under her hand.

"Was it good, my love?"

He did not reply. 

She, too, settled in for a good night's sleep.


End file.
